of selfish purpose
by Irrwisch
Summary: It's your fault - without you he wouldn't even be here. You have to do something. You have to help them somehow. You just have to.


There's a beeping in the room. You've been hearing it a few days now, and at this point it's something you got used to. It's not your beeping. Sometimes you wish it would stop. You don't want him to die, but you want him to stop needing it – or you want to just leave. But you can't.

You look toward the door, but you don't know why. You've been trying to fall asleep for a few hours now, but it didn't work so far. From where you're standing, it's almost time to wake up again, anyway. Maybe you should just close your eyes, and sleep would come to you just for a while.

As soon as darkness engulfs you, you can see it again. It's the yellow truck, and there's your phone in your hand and you're thinking about Dean. Behind your eyes, the truck moves so slowly that you can make out all the details. There are some scratches on the front, and you think they might be from some bushes or trees maybe – nothing big, nothing dangerous – but you can't see the driver or the plate. You don't think that matters anyway. The truck is going to kill you, and you hope Jonathan won't find out, because it's yellow and you need him to like yellow again –

You open your eyes again. You think about your phone, shattered on the ground. You feel sorry you never got to use it, after all.

The nurse wakes you quietly. It's nice. Some come barging in like a storm – they tend to be quite annoying. They're all good people, but you'd just wish some of them to be quieter. Maybe it's supposed to be shock therapy. Shock for what, you don't really know. Just, shock.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Novak?" You look at her and just nod, telling her you're fine. It's not a lie, really, you're not hurting much. Doctors and nurses have told you that humans often tend to rate their own pain in relation to someone else. You don't know if that applies to you. She nods as well and turns to your room-mate. He had a bad heart attack and all his family is very grateful he's still alive. The son comes in often, telling his father about his day and how excited they are to have him back.

The only person who sometimes visits you is Sam. You don't even know if Dean's other friends know you're here. Maybe it's best not to tell them. You wouldn't know what to tell them. Even with Sam here, who knows just about everything, it's awkward. When he's here, you don't talk at all, and he leaves after a while. You wonder why he bothers with you at all. Why did anyone bother with you? "Yeah, they should've just let you rot on the ground." You clench your jaw. No, you think. They're nice people and you feel that's their biggest downfall whenever it comes to you. You try, you try so hard to be nice as well but it _just doesn't work._ "I would've let you lie there, you know." You look over to the door. The window is on Mr. Edgar's side of the room, so you feel it doesn't belong to you. When did Dream-Dean become so cruel, you wonder? Was it before or after you smashed your mirror? You don't remember. But it must've been after the trip you took. You don't remember. This Dean was supposed to be your friend, your imaginary lover. But Dean got a girlfriend, and you broke your mirror and you've lost even that.

"Are you gonna sneak out again?"

Mr. Edgar's voice tears you out of your thoughts. You didn't even notice the nurse leaving. You turn your head to him and nod. You're not supposed to sneak out, but it's an open secret – they tell you not to do it and then pretend not to see you shuffling outside on the floor. "I'm still wondering why they didn't put you in the same room, y'know." You bow your head a bit. That was probably Sam's doing, although you would never voice these accusations. He wanted you as far away from Dean as he could get you, you're sure. You couldn't blame him. All the things that you did to Dean were just unforgivable. You clench your jaw. You shuffle out of bed. You don't have to hurry yet; Sam won't be coming for hours. But still, you'd like to spend as much time next to Dean as you can – because you can't go back there once he wakes up. How could you face him? You can't even face Sam.

It's an agonising way to Dean's room. There's the bar on the wall you have to rely on most of the way; and your trusty crutch. You're sure you're quite the sight; but, as usual, nobody pays you any mind. When you arrive at the right door, you're slightly out of breath. You should be better, you think. You're healing slowly, the doctor said. It wasn't a great way to motivate you, but you didn't tell him that.

You push inside the room and there he is: still blissfully sleeping. He looks a bit better, you think, but you can't really tell. You're not privy to any of the information: the doctors are not allowed to tell you, and Sam hasn't said a word – but to be honest, you've never asked, either.

"Hello, Dean", you say as you hobble towards the chair Sam most likely always sits in. You shouldn't use that chair, but the other one is on the far side of the room, so you'd have to get it _and_ bring it back too – so this is easier. It makes you feel bad sometimes. "How are you feeling? I'm feeling alright. Sam said you're doing better and that you're gonna wake up soon." It's a lie, of course. Sam hasn't told you anything, but you think if you let Dean believe you two are talking, it might be good. Dean's worried enough about you. He doesn't need to worry in his sleep, too. "And you know, when you wake up, I'm sure Sam will have a big pie waiting just for you." You suddenly wonder if Lisa is visiting. She probably does, Dean is her boyfriend after all. It would be odd if she didn't come. And Charlie, and Garth, and Benny, they're visiting too. You knew that already.

So why is it crashing down on you now?

Does Sam only visit you because he's feeling obligated? You twist your hands in your gown. He is, isn't he? "You know the answer to that, right?" Of course you do. But just because you know, doesn't mean you _want_ to know. You wish you could tell Sam to stop sitting next to you. However, you dread the feeling that comes alongside this. If he doesn't come anymore, then nobody would be coming at all. He doesn't care about you, but if he's with you, you can pretend. Right now, he's the only friend you have left in the world, and that friend doesn't even like you. You're even more pathetic than you thought.

Why are you even still here?

It hurts, when you're back in your room. Mr. Edgar is sleeping, and you would never disturb him. Needless to say, you've never initiated conversation with him, so it would be odd if you've done it now. You wish you could leave this place. You have nowhere to go to, however. You can't sleep in the storeroom like this, and honestly, you don't even know if you still have that job or not. You've tried so hard, and now everything's gone. You think back to your old boss. If you'd just showed results, then you wouldn't be here. Maybe Vanessa would take you back? Sure, it broke you before, but who cares about that now? With that money, you could...

"_You've always been good."_

Oh, how much you want to hear that again. It wasn't true then, and it wouldn't be true now. You still wonder why Dean said that to you, lying so obviously. You tug at your hair and try not to make any noises. Mr. Edgar is a light sleeper. You wouldn't want to wake him up just because you're breaking apart again.

You dream of being a shining star in the sky. It's such a welcoming feeling, being loved by others. You dance amongst the other stars and you even dare getting close to Dean, standing on the same level as him, deserving it even. He smiles at you and it feels like he's truly happy to see you. You revel in this feeling, but then you slip, and you fall. You scream for Dean, have him help you, but he just turns to another star, ignoring you like you never even existed.

When you look again, you're on the ground amongst all the other pebbles. You look upon the sky, but the stars are all unreachable. You want to raise your hand, to _try_, but you don't. What's the point? You stopped reaching for the stars a long time ago.

The next day, you feel miserable. You note that Sam didn't come at all yesterday. He usually comes by just before he goes to Dean – just to get it over with, without a doubt. He's come every day – you don't think he'd suddenly start skipping days. You hope nothing happened; and that he's okay. You hope everything's alright with Dean, too. "Not sneaking out today?" Mr. Edgar asks and you shake your head. You can't. The pit in your stomach is going to overwhelm you if you look at Dean now. It's your entire fault. Without you, he wouldn't be here. Just why, oh why did he save you? It would've been good riddance.

A yellow truck. You wonder if Jonathan still paints all black. You hope he doesn't. You hope he's talking to Susie. You hope Bell's been talking to her ex-wife. You hope Leah found someone else to play Sorry with. You don't know why you hope that. They're not your friends after all. But it would be nice, if they all got better, right?

You don't think you have a right to hope that.

It's been four days now since Sam stopped coming. Mr. Edgar is concerned about you, he whisper-shouted it to the nurse, poor soul. You just keep watching the door. You think maybe you're waiting. Maybe you're waiting for someone to come in; someone who'd be delighted to see you. "Well, whoever would that be?"

Yes, whoever indeed.

You've been counting stars in your head, while staring at your blanket, when Sam comes in. His entrance is meek, and if Mr. Edgar hadn't shouted, you wouldn't have noticed at all. Sam sits on his chair, you can hear rustling, and you think he maybe wants to say something. You've noticed that about Sam. Often he wishes to say something, but in the end decides it better remains unsaid. You've found it curious, but you have no right to that curiosity. You wonder what made him come today. Maybe he forgot about you before? Or perhaps he got stuck in traffic and didn't want to waste time with you? Alas, you are happy to see that Sam is alright.

You hear him fidgeting. Maybe he wants you to look at him. How could you, after all you've done? And still, you are going to ask. How selfish of you.

"Sam", you say, and he freezes. "I need to go somewhere, and I'd like you to accompany me."

Sam says yes.

You refused the wheelchair they wanted to give you. Your crutch is too good for you, you think. You should fall and crawl, but you couldn't do that. What would people think of Sam? You showed Sam your permit to leave for the day – at your own risk – again and again, just because he somehow feared it was just a part of his imagination. You won't be long, you kept promising him. He's still fidgeting. You wonder why. Perhaps he's nervous being so close to you – yes that must be it. He glances over at you, clear questions in his eyes. There's nothing you can tell him. After all, there is nothing to be told.

Sam, the good, kind soul he is – parks as close to the gate as he possibly can without tearing it down. He also helps you out of the car. You want to tell him no, but it's just so nice to pretend. You can pretend that you're his friend, and that he really enjoys helping you. You want to take that feeling and enclose it deep inside your heart, but you toss it out instead. It's not yours to have.

You're hobbling along the path – pebbles, so many pebbles – and you see the people. You're late intentionally. You didn't want to partake in anything. It's a wonder they even told you, but then again – they never disliked you. You just were never good enough for them. "Castiel?" Sam asks from next to you. "Do you know these people? Shouldn't we get closer? Why are we here?" Oh, Sam, always full of questions. You could tell him. Over there, there is nothing but shining stars, but that would be pointing out the obvious. You tighten your grip on your crutch. They would welcome you if you went over to them. On the other hand, if you never went, they wouldn't wonder where you were, either. So this is good. You are close enough but still far enough away – just as you're supposed to be.

You think about being average. Maybe you'd come close to being a star, and just fell short. You wonder if she would've been proud of you then. You kept your mouth shut, just like she always wanted, and you still failed to make her proud. You think about your beloved grey ball that you never had. What an irony, that that ball had been flattened by a truck as well.

It's a quiet affair, from what you can see. Nobody seems to be sobbing uncontrollably. They were just people overseeing others. They were all huddled together in their black outfits. The wind is cold, you think. What a pity. She liked sunny days. "She threw it away", you tell Sam, and even though it doesn't answer any of his question nor do you understand why you're telling him at all. "It was so pretty, but she just threw it away." Maybe it had been a metaphor. No matter how pretty you'd ever end up being, you'd never be god enough for a star. And you're not even pretty.

Slowly, the people set themselves in motion. "Let's go", you say to Sam and turn around. Sam is shuffling on the ground, just before he follows you. He helps you back in the car, the questions burning on his tongue, but he doesn't ask them. He simply gets back behind the wheel and pulls on the road, driving back. You look outside the window. "It's a nice day to be buried, don't you think?"

Sam doesn't say anything at all. He simply helps you back into your room and leaves promptly. Normally, Sam tends to linger a bit, as if he's unsure if he should go. To be honest, it hurts a bit, but you understand. Mr. Edgar is gone. His bed is vacant. You don't remember him talking about being released. But the bed is empty, and the heart monitor is gone.

It's so strangely quiet now. You never even learned his first name.

Sam doesn't come back, but that's no surprise. You don't ask the nurses about Mr. Edgar and they pretend he never existed. Life goes on, you think. You miss him, though. It had been nice, not being alone. You wonder if someone would miss you.

But Mr. Edgar went home, you're sure of it. He didn't die. He's alive and well, and he's with his son, and he'll be that way for however long you need. You tug at your hair again. You don't want Dean saying it. You know yourself. You don't want to know. You tug stronger, and then you stop. You can't be seen tugging out your own hair. It makes people think things, and you don't want them to do that.

You can't sleep again. Your leg's been bothering you, but you haven't told anyone. It's stupid not to tell the nurses. And yet, you can't bring yourself to telling him. It would even be such a simple thing: press that button, and they'd come, and they'd fix you right up. But you lack the energy for it. Why should you bother? It's going to sort itself out. And if it doesn't, that's alright too. You press your hands on your eyes and you groan slightly. You could make all the sounds you wanted, now – with Mr. Edgar gone, the room is your own for the time being. You think it's a good thing, that they hadn't needed that bed yet.

You look toward the door. Technically, you could look to the window now, too, but it feels wrong, somehow. The window holds the stars, and you don't want to see them. You get up slowly. There's a short, sharp pain when your foot hits the ground, but it's gone as quickly as it came, so it's probably fine. You take your crutch and make your way over to the door.

It's quieter in the hallways at night, you note. Just as well. You're not sure how the nurses would like you wandering around at night, but you're gonna care about that should it come to that. Nevertheless, you could hurry a bit. When you reach Dean's door, you're not quite as out of breath as before, so you take that as a good sign.

You push the door open and quickly slip inside. When you look upon Dean, you see Sam sleeping next to him. You don't like that. The hospital has strict rules about that: no overnight-visits. He's holding his brother's hand. You hobble over carefully – you don't want to make a noise and risk waking Sam up.

Dean looks bad. His cheeks have fallen in, and his eyes are sunken. He also seems to have lost way more weight than he should. You never learned what happened to Dean exactly – but you always hoped it wouldn't have been so bad. Now you understand why Sam stopped coming. Your grip on your crutch tightens and you feel your hands shaking. It's your fault. Without you, he wouldn't be here – he'd be home, in bed, with his girlfriend, and Sam would be home too and they're here because of you and –

You stop yourself. You can't have a breakdown here. You can't make them worry more. Just look at what you're making them go through now. You press your free hand in front of your mouth. You want to scream, but you can't, you can't, you don't deserve that. Oh, if you'd just been better. Oh, if you'd just been _good_.

You have to do something. You have to help them somehow. You look towards the window, and you hobble over to it. You look up, to a night-sky full of stars. You close your eyes. They're not for you, and you're not even worth dying under their steady gaze. You hobble over to Dean, still careful not to make a sound and bend down to him. You have to be quick, and you'd wish you weren't so selfish. You bend down, as light as you can, and you kiss him for just a second.

"I love you", you whisper to no-one.

In the dead of the night, you steal yourself away.


End file.
